When Shadow Plays Light
by dreamysherry
Summary: The Hero of Kvatch is back in the Imperial Prison. The Dark Brotherhood sends Lucien Lachance with an offer that she cannot refuse.
1. Chapter 1

When Shadow Plays Light

The Hero of Kvatch is back in the Imperial Prison. The Dark Brotherhood sends Lucien Lachance with an offer that she cannot refuse.

Disclaimer: I do not own Oblivion and its characters.

A.N. This story is not new. It is a rewrite of a story that I never managed to complete. I still owe an apology to Jordy Trent, my then beta, for taking the story down without seeking her consent first. Also apologies to those who followed and supported this story! This time I will to see the story through no matter how long it takes. :)

* * *

Chapter One

They say the stone walls of the Imperial Prison have ears, and that no whisper escapes the vigilance of the prison guards…

Not tonight. The guards are asleep, and so is a foul-mouthed Dunmer prisoner who has grown bitterer with each passing year in the dungeon.

_What a perfect opportunity to deal with Adamus Phillida_, thinks a dark-robed man, shaking his head ever so slightly at the absurdity of his situation. Unfortunately, he is not there to slay the Imperial Legion Captain. The Night Mother and Ungolim have a different plan for him, one not so inspiring. Their Unholy Matron has spoken, but this time death will not follow. He will speak for the Black Hand, but the usual pleasure that he should feel is notably absent. And after that, it will only get worse. He will have to help the child of the Nine to fulfil her destiny, a destiny that she probably couldn't care less about.

_You are the only one I can trust with this mission._ That was what Ungolim had told him, but Lucien knows better than to trust the Bosmer's words unquestioningly. It has to be something to do with the mysterious disappearance of a few assassins within his Sanctuary. Lucien has always drawn the most lucrative contracts for the Brotherhood, and his assassins are more skilled than those in other Sanctuaries. Nothing other than the Black Hand's uneasiness over his command of his subordinates' loyalty could have motivated the Listener to separate Lucien from his usual duties.

_I am hereby promoting you to the prestigious position of my Silencer._ What Ungolim meant was that Lucien would be no longer in charge of the Sanctuary he had worked so hard to build. Regretfully, he cannot reprehend the Night Mother for his unwanted promotion. So he settles for blaming Ungolim and the target that he is not allowed to kill.

Inserting a stolen key into a lock that would drive skilled thieves to despair, Lucien glares at the pathetic lump in the corner of a small prison cell. The Breton girl doesn't seem to be sleeping. No matter. He is not there to _recruit_ this particular murderess.

As the iron-barred gate scrapes the flagstone floor, the girl finally looks up but says nothing. Lucien lights the solitary torch mounted on one side for her benefit and runs his sceptical eyes over her sitting form, her knees protectively encircled by her hands. Barely twenty, her features are distinctive and well set, though rather small. She could have been described as pretty, if it had not been for the swollen eyelids and red nose from crying. The right side of her lips is slightly curled up, an imbalance that somehow cancels out the impression of a helpless little girl.

_What an irony,_ Lucien thinks, trying to find some humour in the gloomy situation. _The Nine could have done better than relying on a murderess who twice finds her way into the Imperial Prison. A cry baby, too._

"You don't seem to take well to prison life," Lucien begins, observing the despondent look on her face. She doesn't seem to have any desire to escape from the shackles that trap her by the ankles. "I come to you with an offer from the Dark Brotherhood."

The girl's head falls back on her knees, showing no interest in what he has to say. The gesture does not please Lucien, but he decides to play it diplomatically. She has slain an Orc, two Imperial Commoners, and four Imperial Legion soldiers in broad daylight. There must be a hell of a rage inside that small frame. If there is one thing Lucien abhors more than his current mission, it is failure. If he has to work with her, he doesn't particularly desire a bad start.

"You understand that your friends will do nothing to save you from your scheduled execution. Your only way to escape death is to accept our offer."

Still no response. By now, however, Lucien has a clear idea about how to break down the ungrateful wretch's barrier. A different tactic is all that is required.

"You welcome death. Is that it? You think you will join your beloved horse in the Void?"

"You believe in life after death?" The girl finally speaks, her voice coarse and low.

Lucien smiles. He is finally getting somewhere.

"I serve the Dread Father, Sithis. All souls return to his realm after death. Your horse is no exception, dear Diane," Lucien says, carefully observing her face. He can see something like hope flickering in her blue eyes.

"Unfortunately, however, you are." A lie, and what an amusing lie it is. Lucien can see the irony of earning the approval of the Nine as well as that of Sithis. "Your soul will not reach the Void. The Nine claimed you as their child, and Sithis will not accept your soul unless you convince him otherwise."

Diane does not think about how this total stranger knows so much about her and her dear horse. She cannot bear the thought of her continuing existence without Alexi. An eternal life with the prospect of eternal separation frightens her. She had promised Alexi she would look after her and be with her. She failed to keep her promise in life. She cannot let down her dearest friend in death. Even if it means that she has to join a hierarchical structure she despises.

"Which organisation did you say you were from?" she asks, knowing that it wouldn't make any difference.

Lucien raises an eyebrow. Although she was in a state, the name of his guild should have stayed in her mind. Nevertheless, he keeps his annoyance at bay. "My name is Lucien Lachance and I am a member of the Black Hand, the ruling council of the Dark Brotherhood. Are you now ready to hear out our proposal?"

Diane finally recognises the name of the assassins' guild. She wonders vaguely why the robed man did not wait till she slept, but then remembers she was in prison, awaiting execution. Time must be of the essence in her case. "What would you have me do?"

"As much as your death craft interests the Night Mother, we do not recruit murderesses who are careless enough to get caught. You will not join our ranks. You will continue to help your friends at the Cloud Ruler Temple under my guidance. All you have to do is to establish useful contacts and gain information ..."

"You want me to become a spy?" Diane interrupts, looking rather uneasy and appalled at the prospect.

"Would that be a problem?" Lucien responds, his tone mocking with a hint of disapproval.

Diane stares into an empty space, fearing and despising what she will become. Her old self would not have accepted such a proposal. Establishing trust only to betray it goes against everything she has ever believed. Yet, how do people treat true devotion and loyalty? With contempt and disregard. The one creature who made her feel loved for simply being herself is gone, and in the cruelest and most degrading manner she can think of. Her heart is too broken to care for what is left of the world. Even in death, only Alexi can pull her out of despair.

"No," she says finally, feeling rather exhausted. "I accept your demands. I only ask one favour of your Dread Father. Can he … can I have Alexi to myself in my dreams?"

"That, dear Diane," Lucien says, freeing her ankles from the weight of the heavy shackles, "can be arranged. I trust you will remain co-operative."


	2. Chapter 2

A.N. It has been an interesting experience to reread what I wrote some time ago. The feelings are often mixed ranging from embarrassment to pride. But one thing is certain. It seems to motivate me to keep writing. My favourite characters can live while I write and my readers read. And that should be good enough reason for me to continue. And of course, hearing from Jordy again made me very happy and excited like the first time I heard from her. And that pleasure I owe to my writing. :) Much love to GalaxyInfinite as well. I was pleased to find her work and it warms me to think that the sentiment was reciprocated.

Note to JurgenWindcaller: I have to confess my ignorance of the world of Skyrim. I've played the game a bit but ended up giving up at an early stage. So, I have no idea what Sovengard is. Now though I realise that Lucien will be in the game as a form of spirit, I might just overcome my dislike of the game and give it another go. XD The world where this story is set, however, is the world of Oblivion, which is probably similar to the world of Skyrim but I expect it not to be exactly the same. I'm pretty sure that Oblivion world does not have Sovengard, but I hope my readers will excuse me if I took a bit of liberties with my interpretation of Void. :) Hopefully, I've answered your question? Thank you for brining the matter to my attention.

* * *

Chapter Two

The rescue mission wasn't going to be easy. Lucien knew that much from the start. He also expected the prisoner to have been badly beaten, but that should have been minor inconvenience in the scheme of things. He always carried a couple of strong healing potions.

What he did not expect was her injuries to be so … varied. The medical provisions he had prepared were used up fixing a broken ankle and strained wrist, still leaving the problem of roughly patched up gashes. Any quick movement, and they could easily open up again. A trail of blood isn't going to help them escape the jail unnoticed. Still, she is a Breton, a race that is supposed to excel in the art of restoration magic. She should be able to heal herself without too much difficulty. The sole reason she has not used the ability already is because she did not care to live. Right?

"How long will it take for you to fix your wounds?" he asks, his tone commanding rather than inquiring, though there is no hint of his anxiety that time is running out for them. The guards will wake up from their potion-induced sleep soon, and he cannot afford to waste his magicka with restoration spells.

Diane responds with a blank stare, as though Lucien's simple question were beyond her comprehension. Then slowly, she raises her hand to point at a dark blue band that adorns her neck. It finally dawns on the Imperial that she is not wearing it for sentimental reasons.

A quick examination of the device reveals that it cannot be removed without help from a third party, an adept third party for that matter. It is likely that it can be only displaced with a custom spell. Only mages of high calibre will be able to assist in the task. The guards did not underestimate her even as it should have been obvious that her spirit had already been broken.

_Broken… and needs to be fixed. _

Lucien of course is no healer. But it is obvious that Ungolim expects him to play the role and somehow succeed in mending her. She is not much of use to anyone in her current state.

Lucien decides not to dwell on his misfortune. Without warning, he gathers Diane in his arms and lifts her up. At least she isn't too heavy to carry and has enough common sense not to make an inconvenient show of pride. She only winces slightly at the pressure placed on her back.

"Do not utter a single sound till I tell you otherwise," Lucien orders before casting a series of chameleon spells. If she wants her possessions back, she will have to return to the prison by herself. He wants to be out of the Imperial City before dawn.

* * *

"Are you certain? Are you absolutely certain that it is her?"

The aging Grandmaster of the Blades feels at a loss faced with the despairing voice of the would-be Emperor. The look in his sleep-deprived eyes contains a hint of disbelief and hope, hope that someone will deny such a disastrous report. If his posture is anything to go by, however, he appears already defeated, not just over the scandalous ending of his new-found ally but also over the fate of his Empire. Though Jauffre is sympathetic towards what his younger master has been through, part of him wants to shake Martin senseless. _You are the future Emperor. You are supposed to inspire hope in these dark times._

Because he believes truth to be a better companion for the heir to the throne than comforting words, Jauffre merely hands him a copy of the latest _Black Horse Courier_. The artist's portrait of the murderess who caused a major stir in the capital has an uncanny resemblance to the face that came to be known as the Hero of Kvatch. Martin buries his head in his hands, not caring for the other man's presence. Hope is such a fragile thing. So is faith. All his training as a priest fails to help him when it comes to understanding the divine plan. What good is a dead hero to him and the Empire? Did the Nine really believe that he and his followers alone were enough to stop the invasion of the demonic power of Oblivion? His followers couldn't even stop the assassination of his father. After what happened to Kvatch, only the small Breton girl could manage to keep alive belief in the future

"Is there anything we can do to help her?" asks Martin without optimism, his gaze avoiding the shrewd eyes of his companion. "Surely we can exert some influence over the Council. High Chancellor Ocato may be able to see the advantage in keeping her alive," the future Emperor continues, more to convince himself that he has done everything in his power than to come up with a genuine solution.

"Sire. She has killed four Legion soldiers. Even Ocato cannot intervene without losing the confidence of the Legion. He will never consider such a move. I advise you to forget her. She is a murderess and will be no use to us," comes back the realistic reply.

Jauffre has never been the one for the subtle art of manipulation, and Martin has yet to learn to think like a future Emperor. Jauffre's words, therefore, bring out the least expected reaction from the former priest. They are met with a sudden resolution and quiet anger. Martin may not have learned the inhuman face of political reasoning, but he is a Septim; he cannot be contradicted when he does not want to be.

"Then send the Blades in," he counters, with an unmistakable air of sudden authority and conviction. "Unless you want me to rescue her myself, you will not refuse me this one favour. She has saved my life and countless others. She would not have killed without a reason."

"As you command, your Highness," the Grandmaster replies, knowing that the Blades will never make it to the prison before the time of execution. It may be better to let Martin believe that he at least tried to save his friend's life. The more difficult part will be to find a new face that will act as a hero for the ordinary folk, a face that will inspire lay soldiers and commoners to fight against the biggest threat that the Empire has ever been exposed to.

* * *

Like any experienced assassin, Lucien had meticulously planned his escape route. He had figured that the guards would be searching the sewers, streets, inns, and all the main roads. They would be less inclined to pay attention to the lake that surrounds the city. He was right. No frantic footsteps could be heard while climbing down the cliff that led to the banks of the lake.

The few torch lights he could spot in the distance are now vanished from view as he artfully manages his last leap from one rock face to another. Such finesse would present no challenge to him, were it not for the bundle in his arms. As it happens, Diane's inability to cast spells means she is practically blind during the cloudy night. The Feather spell certainly helps Lucien with carrying her, but not with the position of his arms; they cannot be freed for balance. Three times, he nearly falls, each time the temptation to drop her growing stronger. The feel of the long grass under his boots and the sound of the running water are a welcome change for him.

Lucien considers making her swim through the lake, but decides against it. If she cannot see where she is going, her freed limbs will be more of a hindrance than a help. One thought leads to another. She has remained silent since he ordered her so. She hasn't even attempted to find out where they are going. Either she has no intention of crossing him, or she doesn't particularly care. The latter possibility makes him wonder whether it is necessary to blindfold her as he had previously planned, once they reach the other side of the lake. Then again, such a gesture will be useful; it is a way of telling her to refrain from trying to learn anything about the Brotherhood.

Diane hardly notices how quietly the man in the black robe moves. It's only the sound of soft splashing beneath her that draws her attention to the unusual silence he commanded on land. It is a strange feeling – to be unable to see, and only to feel the weight of someone, a weight that counters the law of gravity. She can see herself falling, falling towards rocky ground, only to be stopped by a pair of arms in the middle of thin air. No solid ground under her feet. The arms that support her will have to guide her through the empty space. She does not know how to fly yet. She has forgotten how to live. She longs to sleep, to dream. While her physical body remains awake, however, she will have to relearn how to play the game of reality.

When Diane's feet finally touch ground, she is forced to rely on her eyes once again. Though Lucien's gloved hand is guiding her movement in an uncharacteristically kind gesture, he is by no means walking slowly. In fact, he is drawing her towards a destination she cannot see. She focuses on the uneven surface that is not kind to her bare feet in an attempt not to stagger or trip over. She hides her discomfort well; Lucien does not even see it even as her feet start to bleed. Only when they come across a huge rock in the shadow of a tall sycamore tree, does he stop to examine her wounds before whistling out Shadowmere from her leisurely rest in the nearby woods.

"You can speak now, though I prefer that you limit yourself to answering my questions," Lucien declares, his form at last materialising. "Under no circumstances will you seek to discover the business of the Dark Brotherhood. Is that clear?"

Diane nods her understanding and greedily drinks water from a small bottle that Lucien produces from inside his robe. She doesn't try to return the penetrating stare. It is too dark to make out a face shrouded in a hood, and she is not that curious in any case. Though she paid little attention to his overall appearance in the torch-lit cell, she remembers how deep and all-knowing his eyes looked. He will reveal his full face to her if necessary. What matters to her at present is that he will be a reliable guide; he has the eyes and voice that reflect the confidence and strength of their bearer.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Back in Fort Farragut, Lucien frees Diane from the blindfold, which served no other function than a symbolic warning for most of their journey. Diane stands awkwardly, her eyes fixed on the huge tapestry hung high on the dark stone wall. It depicts a giant hand, not exactly something interesting to look at, but at least its meaning is clear. The skeletal shape says it all. A faint smile briefly appears on her tired face. Perhaps Sithis loves irony just as much as the Nine. Death does not welcome those who openly embrace it.

_Child of the Nine, is that all I am to you?_ Diane thinks bitterly. _But if I were their child, would they also not be your children? Why must you demand that I should earn your acceptance?_

"You must be exhausted. Perhaps even hungry," Lucien surmises, and his voice commands her attention. It is presently the only sound that she can attach any meaning to. She realises then she is in fact exhausted and, to her surprise, hungry. Her treacherous body still wants to live, regardless of her will or lack thereof.

Without waiting for her answer, he motions for her to follow him to the corner of his bed chamber where he keeps a table and a few chairs along with equipment for writing, reading and alchemy experiments. That part of the room is even darker than the rest, a small candle being the only source of light. Diane says nothing but she is grateful for the darkness.

Empty plates and glasses can be seen on the wooden table along with a jug of water and a bowl that contains a loaf of stale bread and berries. Once seated, they devour their meal in complete silence. Both are famished and would like nothing better than going to sleep afterwards.

"You can rest now-" Lucien finally says what she wants to hear most, after showing her how to access a small bathroom hidden behind a large standing mirror not far from the dining table. Opposite the mirror and just in front of a stone pillar, Diane can see a bedroll that should comfortably accommodate her small form. She nods gratefully and accepts the night gown he lends her for the night, eager to submerge herself in the merciful world of dreams.

There will be not much privacy for either of them during her stay, but he doubts that it will bother her much. There was no shyness or resistance when she was told to undress earlier, in the middle of the wilderness. He hadn't even had to explain that he needed to have a close look at her injuries. She could have been still in shock. Or perhaps her mind is rather pragmatic. Either way, he has already seen her without her clothes on. If she suffers a sudden attack of modesty, she can always change in the bathroom. In any case, the large chamber is the only inhabitable room in the whole fort. Keeping her in his bed chamber also has the added advantage that he can keep a close eye on her condition.

"Wait," she calls out as he turns away from her.

"Yes?"

Diane hesitates for a moment before blurting out. "You love your horse."

The strange undertone in her rather childish statement is not lost on Lucien. He senses her desperation in seeking affinity with the world where she is forced to live, especially with her rescuer. She needs to be assured that his promise was not an empty one.

Of course he is fond of Shadowmere. She is unique and has served him extremely well. That does not mean he sympathizes with Diane's feelings towards her equine friend. His revenge would have been nothing like her uncontrolled rage. Besides, no other horse deserves the respect that his own commands. Nevertheless, he decides to give her the answer that will comfort her. The quicker she gets back on her feet, the earlier she can resolve the Oblivion crisis, thereby bringing an end to his unenviable mission.

"She has served me well, and that endears her to me" Lucien says simply, before leaving Diane to her much-needed rest.

* * *

Diane moves through dark water, or rather what she believes to be such, because she can no longer call upon her usual senses for counsel. Her shape is irregular; it seems to stretch and twirl at will, taking her to a place that she seems to remember from somewhere deep in her subconsciousness. Lights without concrete forms approach and disperse around her, as though inviting her to their unique secrets. She is unsure of what she is there for, who she is, or what she is seeking.

Only a sense of unknown purpose urges her forward, and she moves with single-mindedness to embrace that purpose with her whole being, ignoring the dazzling display of dancing lights. All the while, she can feel the presence nearing her with the same eagerness, the same longing. Two glowing balls of light finally meet and merge with one another, warm contentment and relief permeating and caressing their beings.

_Alexi_, Diane whispers, filling the space with the sweet sound. And she understands how life begins from and always returns to the Void.

* * *

Lucien's sleep is never troubled by dreams. Though he is a light sleeper, his body responding to the merest changes in the surroundings, he is blessed with complete silence while he sleeps. A true child of Sithis, he embraces the Void and the beauty of silence embraces him in turn. He speaks to achieve the silence and the silence follows him in his wake.

As much as he cherishes the special gift of Sithis, it is rare that he can enjoy it for longer than a few hours at a time. It is still rarer that he lies still while awake, in the comfort of his own bed. It is, however, not the pleasant texture of the silken sheets wrapping his body that he finds rather unsettling. It is the realisation that the Night Mother no longer desires his services as a Speaker.

He knows well that the Unholy Matron's love is never gentle. He has accepted that the plight of his own Sanctuary was a test of his loyalty, that she has chosen him to bear the heaviest burden of all. And he has yet to understand why she suddenly decided to remove that burden from his shoulder. The responsibility of having to come up with a plausible explanation for the mysterious disappearances of assassins in Cheydinhal Sanctuary is no longer his.

A light, but persistent tap on the iron gate that separates his chamber from the rest of the fort pulls him out of his musings. Lucien lifts himself up and walks towards the unwelcoming sound to retrieve a folded parchment from the skeleton hand of one of his dark guardians. _Outside._ A simple one-word message written in bold handwriting is all that it contains. Lucien leisurely proceeds to choose his outfit for the day and dresses himself in a blue silk shirt and matching trousers. There is a wistful look in his eyes as he places his black robe and hood in the wooden chest beneath his bed. He won't be wearing them for sometime to come.

A custom life-detection spell reveals a figure leaning against the heavy fort entrance, overlooking a ruin of a courtyard. "Inside, Brother," Lucien whispers warmly, pleased with the caution J'Ghasta exercises. The Khajiit Speaker follows Lucien's invisible form into the familiar darkness, away from the warmth of the late afternoon sunlight. He doubts that there are any prying eyes, but one cannot be too careful. They walk across the flagstone floor, stopping short of the shallow steps leading to an iron gate beyond which J'Ghasta is not keen on exploring. Lucien periodically changes the locations and nature of his traps.

"I believe you came with a message from Ungolim," Lucien says, eyeing the heavy bundle J'Ghasta puts down on the dusty stone floor.

"If it is a message, it is a rather bulky one for my liking," The Khajiit almost growls, his distaste for Ungolim rather evident in his tone. "I have no idea why he told me not to step into your bedchamber, seeing that it is no secret to me where you sleep."

The Khajiit has an inkling that there is something in the chamber that Ungolim rather wants to hide from the rest of the Hand, but knows better than to press Lucien on the issue. The Black Hand is rather apprehensive that the Listener has made a point of not revealing the nature of the mission that his Silencer is supposed to carry out. Ungolim merely told them that it was something to do with the wishes of their Unholy Matron, which effectively silenced any more questions on that matter. Seeing that Lucien is not about to betray the confidence of the Listener, he decides to move on to the next topic.

"Anyway, I thought you might want to know that I had been appointed as the new Speaker of your former Sanctuary. A bottle of wine may persuade this one to impart more information."

It feels rather surreal to hear that his previous position has been filled so quickly. Lucien would have thought that none of the existing Speakers wanted to be in charge of a troublesome Sanctuary. Without words, Lucien hands the Khajiit one of the two bottles he has brought with him. He isn't sure whether he ought to congratulate or commiserate the former Speaker of Bruma.

"There is no need to look at me like that. I'm not taking any more risks than any other Hand members. I've only agreed to take up the position on the condition that the residents of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary should be split up and distributed among the Brotherhood Sanctuaries," J'Ghasta explains with a smug expression in his pensive eyes. He likes the taste of the wine he has gulped down. Lucien has expensive taste when it comes to wine and weapons.

"They agreed to that scheme?" Lucien is not bitter. Only astonished at the Khajiit's ability to get his own way. With all his persuasiveness, he could not get the Black Hand to accept the same proposal. They could not rule out the possibility that the baffling evaporation of skilled assassins was related to an act of treachery. And none of them, except J'Ghasta, wanted a potential traitor in the midst of their respective Sanctuary.

"They didn't have much choice. Ungolim threatened that he would seek advice from the Night Mother on the matter if no-one volunteered. They probably thought it more palatable than to take over a Sanctuary full of latent suspects. It's always easier to keep an eye on one or two potential traitors. Anyway, I kept Vicente with me. He should be more useful than any of the others - as the Cheydinhal Sanctuary will soon be filled with beginners."

Trying to ignore somewhat hollow feelings inside him, Lucien brings the wine bottle to his lips and swallows hard. "I believe, then, congratulation is in order. When do you begin the recruitment process?"

"Tonight. I am to speak with a Bosmer who happened to murder Uvani. She better be good, though she only achieved that feat with a poisoned arrow. That's what Bosmers can do to you. They look so small and meek that one tends to forget that they can hold grudges and act on them as well. Apparently Uvani insulted her without knowing."

The murder would have caused panic in the heart of the Black Hand, had it not been endorsed by the Night Mother. Lucien almost certainly would have enjoyed meeting the Bosmer, had the circumstances been different. Unfortunately, it was her vengeful act that rendered the position of the Listener's Silencer vacant in the first place. The very deed that made her an interesting recruit resulted in depriving Lucien of the chance to meet the murderess altogether.

"I have one more piece of news that you may not like," J'Ghasta says, his normally upright posture and ears stooping slightly in apology. "The Hand knows perfectly well that you are alive and well. But every former assassin of yours was told otherwise."

Lucien blinks his eyes, trying to make sense of the situation. _Perhaps the Hand can_ e_nlighten me as to__ how that feat was accomplished. _The words do not leave his lips. Instead, he merely nods. Perhaps it is better that way. It will stop his subordinates enquiring about his whereabouts and the sudden decision to split their family.

"I will be staying in my private sanctum while you seek yours," says Lucien, briefly placing one hand on the Khajiit's unusually broad shoulder. "Your visits will be received warmly. The Hand will _resurrect_ me when the Listener deems it the right time. All the same, I do not wish to remain ignorant of the affairs of the Brotherhood."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

It was well before mid-morning when Diane slipped into a bedroll, and it is now past mid-night. She is still asleep, oblivious to the happenings of the outside world. The news of her mysterious escape has already reached a few cities and attracted hugely different interpretations and responses.

The Imperial Legion has already issued several statements, assuring the public that the escapee will be caught and brought to justice. A hefty reward of ten thousand septims has been promised for anyone offering information that would lead to the arrest of the hero of Kvatch. The public opinion, however, proves to be sharply divided over the issue, much to Lucien's amusement.

Some have strongly supported the Imperial Legion's decision to hunt down the defamed hero. The law should be applied to all, and making an exemption based on past achievement will only weaken the citizens' fear and respect for the very foundation of any civilised society. The fate of the fallen hero should serve as a warning to all those who have invested too much in their relationship with animals. It is simply treacherous to put the life of any animal before that of a citizen. This view has been popular among Legion soldiers and their families as well as those who find any close bond between man and beast insufferable and disdainful.

Others have argued that the extraordinary event must be explained in terms of Divine intervention, pointing out the near impossibility of a successful breakout from the Imperial Prison. The hero of Kvatch must have merely been an agent of Divine wrath against those in the habit of consuming a noble animal that was created as companion rather than as food. Any attempt to punish her is to challenge the Divine will. What the Imperial Legion must do is to pass a law that condemns to death those who seek horseflesh. Not surprisingly, most of the survivors in the Oblivion invasion of Kvatch have taken this point of view.

Still others have claimed that there must be a Daedric Prince whose existence has been known only to a selected few. This Prince must be a patron of horses, and the hero of Kvatch's execution of the infamous horse-snacking Orc was in fact a quest that she needed to complete in order to obtain an artefact useful in combating the monsters of Oblivion. Had the foolish Legion soldiers left her alone to complete the quest, all would have been well. All charges against her must be dropped, and she should be allowed to continue her fight for the Empire.

The majority's views on this matter have been, however, rather pragmatic, if somewhat simplistic. What the hero of Kvatch has done is wrong, and would perhaps justify the death penalty under different circumstances. The demand for justice, nevertheless, pales into insignificance when the whole Empire and its citizens are faced with the demonic invasion of Oblivion. Since the arrest of the hero, no one has managed to close a single Oblivion gate and more new gates have opened. The aggrieved Imperial Legion must remember that their first and foremost duty is to protect the Empire. She should be given a chance to live and redeem herself for her wrongdoings.

Lucien places a copy of the latest _Black Horse Courier_ on the desk with a smug expression on his face. No one seems to suspect the involvement of the Dark Brotherhood. That should please both Ungolim and the Night Mother, whose peculiar interest in the disgraced hero he finds somewhat hard to decipher.

Oh, he can understand perfectly well why Sithis would rather not see Mehrunes Dagon claiming Cyrodiil as his realm. Mankar Camoran's Paradise isn't exactly where the Dread Father wishes the souls reserved for the Void would end up. The idea of making Diane gather intelligence for the Brotherhood more than likely came from Ungolim, a smart move if the Brotherhood has to invest their precious resources for a mission whose very nature repels them.

What baffles him is why it has to be the wretch in his care who should be entrusted with the fate of Cyrodiil. Surely, there must be hundreds others, if not thousands, who could play the same role just as well? His life in the service of the Night Mother taught him that no one is irreplaceable. He has seen many gifted assassins fall, and the Brotherhood did not miss any of them for long. So, why should she be any different?

Shaking his head, Lucien takes out a parchment from the parcel J'Ghasta delivered before destroying it with a fireball. The two incantations were surprisingly short, but he has no doubt they will work perfectly well. The Night Mother's gift to Diane and Lucien himself. He is rather pleased with the thought that he has full control over Diane's ability to employ magic. If she is indeed entrusted with the fate of the Empire, it is Lucien Lachance who holds the power over her fate. Theoretically anyway. In practice, he will have to be cautious with the power. Otherwise, he will risk losing the Unholy Matron's favour.

Having finished two meals without Diane, Lucien decides it is time to wake her up. After all, Ungolim probably wouldn't appreciate a report that states their precious investment does nothing but sleep. Her face, with all the unwashed grime and dirt, looks strangely peaceful, even happy. It gives Lucien a fair indication that Sithis granted the troubled girl her wishes. He ponders how long she would sleep, if left to her own devices. He is certain the unusually lengthy slumber is solely based on her unwillingness to face reality. Her body does not need so much of it.

When Diane emerges from the bathroom, she still looks hopelessly ridiculous in Lucien's nightgown. At least, however, she looks much more presentable than before. Her shoulder length hair is roughly combed and no longer messy. Her eyelids are no longer swollen, and her complexion has resumed its normal paleness. Lucien regards it as an improvement of sort and points to the large packet placed next to the bedroll. At least, Ungolim spared him the trouble of having to purchase female garments.

Diane neither asks about nor thanks Lucien for the new set of clothing. She mechanically browses through the dresses, armour and nightgown, out of necessity rather than real interest. The pair of leather boots, however, she feels genuinely grateful about. The enchanted glass shortsword she knows will be useful, but cannot bring herself to care what effects it has been fortified with.

"You should pay more attention to your weapons," comments Lucien. "You will be no use to Sithis if you get killed while assisting your friends."

_I have no friends,_ she protests inwardly, but knows better than to contradict her rescuer. He has kept his side of the bargain, and she will keep hers. "What is it?" she enquires, unsheathing the blade and running her eyes over its gleaming blue surface. She can make out it's a beautiful weapon, with fine balance and deadly power.

"Look at the colour," he says, unimpressed with her half-hearted observation. "You should be able to figure it out yourself."

"Frost damage," she murmurs. "Does it have a name?"

"The blade does more than that, which in due course you will find out. As for a name," he pauses to see that she is paying attention to the blade, "you must be the one who bestows on it a name, a name which will befit its nature and perhaps even its purpose. Learn it and make it part of yourself, the very part that carries your will and executes it to perfection. Treat it with the love and care it deserves and in turn it will serve you as your most reliable companion in the realm of - What?"

Lucien realises Diane stopped heeding his words at some point. Instead, she is staring at his face like it is an interesting object to look at. True, he is not wearing a robe and hood. He has no interest in scaring her more than necessary. Still, it is rather annoying to find himself the object of such fearless curiosity. He simply is not used to such attention.

Diane wasn't, initially, staring at his face as such. It was the tone of his voice while talking about her new sword that got her attention first. Caressing, almost loving. That's when she looked up to find his eyes, usually the eyes of a predator, cold and calculating, stalking its prey. She wanted to see whether they remained the same while his tone indicated otherwise. What she saw was a warm gleam, the same sparkle as when a predator watches over its offspring, its kin. Then she finally noticed that he was not shrouded in robe and hood; she was staring at his whole face.

A proud nose, a well-defined brow and full lips. It is not a face that makes her heart flutter; it does not have the softness, the feminine element that charms her. It is an interesting face nonetheless because it belongs to her unlikely rescuer. And she cannot help but like the fact that he keeps his hair long. Diane has been openly exploring his face when it finally registers with her that he has stopped talking.

Reluctantly, she pulls her gaze away, instead focusing back on the blade. She does not want to apologize because she doesn't feel that she has crossed any line. Not intentionally in any case. It is up to him to define what is and is not acceptable interaction between them. Nevertheless, she will only take the blame when he has already made the boundary clear to her.

"I will name it _Frost Band_," she says, to break the uncomfortable silence.

"I trust that you slept well," he says, bringing the subject indirectly to their deal. With a satisfied expression, he observes her nod meekly, the implication of the seemingly innocent remark dawning on her.

"Next time I speak, I expect to have your full attention. Nothing less will be tolerated."

Diane feels her cheeks grow hot with a sense of humiliation. It was a long time ago when she was last spoken to like a little child. She didn't like it then. She doesn't like it now. There is a glimpse of fury when Diane looks up to meet his eyes, her posture defiant and challenging. Then it is gone. Her sense of pride and dignity still lives, but she refuses to identify herself with it. She blames her old self – the proud girl who was unwilling to compromise – for her failure to keep Alexi safe. When she speaks, her eyes are downcast and there is no fire in her voice.

"You made yourself clear to me. It will not happen again."

Lucien has not failed to notice the transitory anger in her reaction. It is easy to see that she does not like being reprimanded. Nor does she feel comfortable playing anyone's subordinate. She will always find a part of their deal hard to live with. It will only get worse when she fully recovers her strength, mind and body. Part of him is tempted to break her into submission. It would be a sweet feeling to see the rebellious mind succumb to his every wish. He will not give into the temptation, however. She needs to bring out the fire temporarily frozen inside her. Quenching it before it has a chance to kindle will not help his cause. He should be able to control her, without resorting to threats. He will, however, need to learn about the girl inside and out, her abilities, her dispositions, her thoughts and feelings.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Jauffre slides open the wide door leading to Martin's bedroom. In the whole of the temple, this is the only room that is elaborately decorated, with an exquisitely woven carpet and majestic candelabra hanging from the ceiling. Perhaps a little too luxurious for someone who is used to a life of simple modesty. If Jauffre had trouble getting Martin to spend enough time in this room before, he has been experiencing the reverse lately. The heir to the throne just wouldn't leave the room. Since he learned of the hero of Kvatch's arrest, he has only come out once. And that was only to make sure the Grandmaster was indeed sending the Blade to rescue his friend. Jauffre hopes the latest news concerning the fate of the hero will pull Martin out of his self-inflicted misery. A future Emperor does not have the right to feel sorry for himself, or his nearest and dearest. Not that the fallen hero is nearest and dearest to Martin. He certainly hopes not.

"Where is she? Why is she not with you?" Martin asks somewhat bitterly, not taking his eyes off the book in his hand. He has been staring at it without reading it for the past hour or so.

"We were too late. She had already vanished from the prison by the time Banus and Steffan arrived there," replies Jauffre, observing the change on Martin's face. He will need to learn to hide his emotions better. Jauffre decides to make this another thankless task of his for the good of the Empire. He himself is rather relieved at the outcome of the event. He couldn't have wished for a better solution to the inconvenient problem.

"She has escaped the prison?"

"No one saw her escape, but yes, it seems that way. There is no other explanation."

Martin finally smiles, and it spreads from the corner of his lips to the rest of his face. The joy he experiences is pure and selfless; it crosses the boundary of self and embraces even Jauffre in its bliss.

Martin can believe she has accomplished what many would die trying. His friend is special. She makes impossible things possible. The Gods make their presence felt through her extraordinary achievements. She may not believe in the benevolence of the Divines, but the Divines chose the unbeliever to show the magnitude of their love.

"She is safe, then. She must be. Is the Legion still after her?"

Though Jauffre does not like answering the question, he sees no way out of it. He gives a brief account of the Legion's commitment to hunting down the hero of Kvatch. He was right to be concerned. Martin paces the room, deep in thought. When he speaks, it is not to Jauffre's liking.

"I need you to arrange a secret meeting with the High Chancellor Ocato. The Legion needs a way of gracefully backing down from their tough stand."

"Sire. With all due respect, I must object to such a scheme. We have wasted enough time on this matter as it is. Though the Nine preserved her life, she is no longer in a position to help us. You have a duty towards the Empire, which takes priority over all your personal concerns and wishes. And if the Empire falls, she falls with it."

Martin does not frown at the objection. Instead, he smiles, like a wise priest would smile at his ignorant flock. Jauffre, having been a priest himself, does not like to be on the receiving end of such an expression. Unfortunately, the heir is determined to lead his new flock before he is ready, and Jauffre has no Septim blood in his veins to tell the future Emperor otherwise.

"No, friend, she will not be able to assist us in the same way she used to. The Gods, however, saved her for a purpose, and both you and I should agree that this purpose is to benefit the Empire. For the gift and favour the Nine have bestowed upon her is the very manifestation of their benevolent intention towards the Empire and its people. I do not know what their exact plans are for her, but I do not doubt that she is part of the Divine plan. My father could see in her what no one else could. He knew she would be invaluable to our cause. I assure you that everything I do, I do with the interest of the Empire at heart. How can I not?"

"It would be most unwise of you to leave this fortress," Jauffre protests, but knows that he will have to give Martin something back in order to dissuade him from the foolish idea of meeting the High Chancellor. "And Ocato will not grace this place with his presence. I will go, however, to meet him on your behalf. Tell me your plans."

* * *

An hour of swordplay with Diane has altered Lucien's opinion of her for the better, though not that much. She certainly can hold her own against better-than-average fighters. She can move - and moves like a typical Breton warrior too, agile, quick and fluid. She has demonstrated an ability to anticipate a strike. She defends and attacks with elegance and precision. Still, she is no match for him. She would have been lying dead within five minutes of their mock battle, had his intention been less charitable.

_Naturally_, he thinks with a self-assured smile. His blade skills surpass any of hers, and he has what she clearly lacks: _strength_. Though this reflection suits his pride, it doesn't help him to solve the mystery of her supposedly unique qualification for bringing closure to the Oblivion crisis. By her own admission, a sword is the only weapon she can use, and he can think of at least a dozen faces who should be able to beat her, though not as easily as he can, in close combat.

_Perhaps her magical abilities?_ That question reminds him of the fact that he has not yet restored said abilities to her. Lucien takes a chair opposite Diane and idly watches her bite into a loaf of bread. She eats slowly, perhaps too slowly, as though she doesn't want to leave the dining table. Her cheeks are still pleasantly flushed after the exercise, and her eyes remain downcast without a sense of modesty.

"Where did you learn to use a blade?"

Diane stops eating to show that she has been listening. When she answers him, she does not look up, though nothing feels more natural to her than observing the face of someone who speaks to her.

"My father … he taught me. He was a bard."

_Princess._ A voice from the past gently calls to her. An image of a man lifting a little girl and affectionately rubbing his cheek on hers flashes in front of her eyes. She was innocent then. She knew nothing of the world, nothing of its miseries. Her father was her entire world before he became restless, unable to ignore the cravings for the unfamiliar, the yet-to-be explored. She felt safe and content. Even her mother knew how to smile then. _You can be anything you want to be. The Nine love you so._

_The Nine died with you, father. In life, they only linger in memory like you._ _Even in death,_ _they will stay distant._ Diane remembers her last visit to the Great Chapel of Zenithar. She had visited the temple many times before with her mother, even though she could not understand why her mother frequented the place. She had stopped praying to any of the Nine long ago. They had never answered her, and speaking to a voice that never spoke back seemed to be a pointless exercise. She had been, however, keeping up the pretence of belief for her mother's sake. Or rather, to avoid any unpleasant confrontation.

That day, however, something snapped inside her, and she refused to kneel down beside her mother. With her father's death, she became an adult, independent and self-reliant. She decided that she would live by her principles and hers alone. _I will never bow to anyone, be it a powerful mortal, a Daedric Price or the Divines._ Her mother never forgave her for her act of defiance. Diane quickly shakes off the images and voices, as she realises with a feeling of dread that Lucien has said something more to her.

"Was?" His tone is slightly harsh, but he overlooks her failure to answer him the first time.

"He died years ago … during one of his adventures," Diane replies, her tone remaining factual. She feels relieved that Lucien is not likely to mumble words of sympathy, which tend to make her hopelessly uncomfortable. "He lived a good life. He loved wine, women and adventures, none of which he denied himself. He didn't find his life wanting."

Lucien is surprised at her neutral tone when she imparts the information. Her father was obviously not exactly the faithful type. Not even the discreet type. It is, however, her reaction, or rather lack of it, to her father's extra-marital affairs that arouses his curiosity. She doesn't seem to interpret events or people as he would have imagined - had he ever bothered to imagine such things – as a favoured child of the Nine would do. Her views were more like those of the Sanguine worshipers. Of course, he would not have thought that a child of the Divine was capable of killing innocent people without remorse. Her tears in the jail certainly weren't for them. But then, he could balance out that observation with another; excessive grief and rage could push anyone into acting on the darker impulses of human nature.

"And you are not bitter?"

The tinge of amusement in his voice relaxes Diane into a conversational mood. She looks up without thought, forgetting the fact that she has been making her point to Lucien. Namely, she will not look at his face because she knows that's what really annoyed him.

She likes his expression. No sympathy. No judgement. Just genuine curiosity.

"He was a good father. Perhaps he shouldn't have married my mother. Maybe my mother should have found the strength to divorce him. But he was charming, witty and attractive. He loved all things beautiful, including women, and women loved him in return. They made him happy."

_Definitely a Daddy's girl_, Lucien concludes. Perhaps what he thought as an unusual response was merely a manifestation of blind love for her father? That interpretation sounds rather plausible. She certainly seems the type whose views and actions can be easily swayed by excessive loyalty. Hardly anyone will commit a murder over a dead horse. Leaning forward, he captures her tranquil gaze for one short moment before probing further. "And you? Where did you figure in his life?"

As the question sinks in, Diane's composed expression falters. She never asked the question herself. Never dared. What was she to him? He told her many times that he loved her and that he was proud of her. He could not, however, stay long around his family, not even for his precious daughter's sake. And it was Diane who had to endure her mothers' hysterical sobs of self-pity and her almost obsessive desire to mould her daughter into her own ideal image. She grew up, determined not to pine over a man.

"I was his child," she says after a long pause, after the sudden grip of confusion and bitterness finally leaves her. "He married my mother because he thought her intelligent enough to bear his child and she would not sleep with him without the promise of marriage. My father, like most mortals, had one weakness. He wanted a child – a gifted child, one that he could identify with and be proud of. I suppose in a way I made his life more complete."

_A strange little thing._ Lucien isn't sure what to make of her any longer. She seems to be rather too analytical over her father's life for a girl who puts him on a pedestal? All is not wasted, however. He can deduce one thing with confidence. She would not have had many friends, if any. Her views are too unorthodox to be comforting to the ordinary citizens of the Empire. Her pride certainly would not have made things easier for her.

_But human nature seeks out acceptance. _Lucien should know. There lies the secret behind the success of the Dark Brotherhood. One does not join the guild out of the desire to serve Sithis and the Night Mother. It is the concept of the family, however unlikely it seems, that most appeals to their new recruits. Where else would these murderers and murderesses find the same kind of acceptance? Who else would promise them love and safe haven?

Lucien silently regards Diane, who has resumed eating her meal without much interest or appetite. She looks dispassionate and unconcerned. She has that look of someone who lives life purely out of a sense of duty, or mere habit. It is hard to believe that she is capable of any strong feelings towards anything. Lucien of course knows better than to fall for that deceptive front. The secrets of her heart have been laid bare in her unusual bond with her horse.

_In the depth of your heart, there still lives the hopeless longing. You crave the impossible, love that does not question, love that does not judge._

If desires, rather than thoughts or beliefs, determine the very essence of men and mer, Lucien contemplates with a knowing smile, he now possesses a powerful and reliable tool for predicting and directing her future course.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Lucien can think of a number of things he would rather do than keep company with a girl who is not even his Dark Sister. Still, Diane is his project. His professionalism demands nothing short of complete success in every mission he undertakes. Since frightening her into submission is out of the question, he decides that he needs to turn her into a willing, perhaps even devoted, tool. Whatever else Diane is, Lucien suspects she is the faithful type. She will do anything for those whom she trusts and loves.

The Dark Brotherhood has already secured her co-operation. Surely she will do nothing that could jeopardise her reunion with her beloved horse. The main problem with Diane lies in the fact that her collaboration is solely based on the fear of loss, hardly conducive to making use of her full potential.

Knowing how her sense of loyalty moves her, there is also the question of not allowing her to develop too close a bond with anyone else other than Lucien himself. He doubts that the relationship between Diane and Martin Septim is anything deep or meaningful. She would not have been so eager to leave the world had that been the case. Nevertheless, that does not mean it will always remain so. Vulnerable people are easier to influence, and a priest tends to be a good listener.

The plan is simple. Give her something in reality that she can look forward to: make her eager to come back to him, with successful results each and every time, of course.

Though Lucien is curious about Diane's magical abilities, he decides to leave the test for another day. Instead, he seats himself on the edge of the bed and calls her to his side.

Diane stands in front of him, rather awkwardly and her gaze fixed on the floor, wondering something that she would not have wondered before. She is not sure what he expects her to do: she doesn't know whether to sit next to him or wait for further instruction. To her amazement, Lucien slowly raises his hand and lightly brushes her cheek. The gesture is so subtle that it makes her wonder whether the contact actually happened. And it makes her ache for a more solid touch.

"Better," Lucien comments approvingly as Diane returns his stare. He lets her regard him for a while, her expression curious with a longing for comfort. Lucien extends both hands for her, palms upwards. Diane takes them both without hesitancy and is surprised to find them so warm.

"We should stay here for a while, and I need to be sure that you are strong by the time we leave this place, in mind and body. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

With a slow smile, Lucien closes in his fingers, trapping her hands securely within his grasp.

"That, I like to hear. Nevertheless, I need to know something. And I want you to look at me when you give the answer … Are you still grieving for Alexi? Even now, even when you have her to yourself during your sleep?"

"I cannot think of her without …"

Diane gives up her attempt to explain her feelings, instead inhaling deeply to steady her voice and fighting the urge to cry all over again. Why is it that she cannot remember Alexi with a smile? Her horse has given her so much comfort and delight, and yet all she can think about is how terrifying it must have been for her when she met her death. And the overwhelming sense of regret and guilt that she should have stayed with Alexi instead of pursuing her education. She should not have been so eager to leave her mother's side.

The image of her friend when she saw her for the last time plays in Diane's mind over and over again. Why did Alexi look so sad then? Perhaps, she didn't look any sadder than she had looked every time Diane left home without her. Diane's guilt-ridden mind however will not allow her to see it that way. It stubbornly repeats the same questions. _Why was I unable to see what was coming? How could I ignore her pleading eyes?_

"I … I do grieve for her. Even now. It is not going to be a problem for …"

"Sit with me," Lucien interjects, releasing her hands from his firm grip.

"I do not expect you to stop feeling sad for Alexi. I merely want to help you cope better with your grief. Do not think of the past or the future unless you have to. Allow yourself to focus on simple comforts and take your time."

Feeling Lucien's arm encircling her shoulder, Diane rests her head on his chest, savouring the warmth of another beating heart. It matters not what motivates his sudden generosity. Diane is dead to the world, and that makes Lucien the only living man in whom she can find comfort. Her relationship with everyone else will be strained by lies. They will not know her, and she will not be able to trust or love anyone who thinks of her as someone else. Lucien may not suspect it yet, but he is the only one who can give her new meaning in her waking life.

* * *

It has been a few years since Jauffre visited the Market District. The layout, the buildings, and the vigilant patrol of the Imperial guards have not changed. The bustling excitement usually present in the commercial jewel of the city is, however, noticeably absent. Though it is only late afternoon and the weather is rather fine, the streets are markedly quieter. Jauffre is not surprised to find a nervous apprehension in the air, but he can detect something else that he did not expect. There is a certain animosity that is seeping into the atmosphere, and the hostility seems to be coming from ordinary citizens and directed towards … the Imperial guards, who suddenly have become a target of disdain.

As he continues to stroll the streets, clad in his priestly robe, Jauffre finally notices a large crowd gathered in and around a square, nodding furiously and clapping at times. In the middle of the plaza, a tall silver-haired man stands on a lofty crate, giving a speech. Several guards stand a little way from the crowd, their hands on the hilts of their swords in case trouble breaks out.

"The Imperial Legion says our hero is a whore. Do they think we're all fools? 'Ha!' is my reply to that bunch of cowards," the elderly man continues his speech as the latest applause subsides, with a surprisingly clear and powerful voice. "What are they doing here? Why aren't they closing the hell gates? Oh, we're too busy saving you from thieves and murderers. Lame, pathetic excuses! We know what happened in Kvatch. Why don't they go and see it themselves? Mehrunes Dagon wants to finish us all and the soldiers cannot be bothered!"

"It's because they've all lost their minds," a young man shouts out from the crowd, causing many of the audience to cheer in approval.

"Aye, I say they've indeed lost their minds," the old man responds in good humour before taking out what looks like a copy of a newspaper from his robe and tearing it into pieces. "Who has been closing the evil gates? Our hero! Do the cowards thank her for doing their job? No! They just want to ruin her good name. So, they feed lies to this no-good gossip-mongering paper. And no, we are no fools. Who sponsors this crooked paper? _The Elder Council_. We will let them know what we think of their … service to the Empire."

_Foolish decision._ Jauffre grimaces, watching the crowd marching towards the Imperial Palace. He suspects that the Legion leaked the information they had held in secret at his personal request. In a way, he can understand why they were tempted to take drastic action. Martin was right. The citizens were getting frustrated and restless over the Empire's inability to stamp out the encroaching threat of Oblivion. The Imperial Legion must have been feeling the force of the public demands to overthrow the charges against their hero. In their desperate attempt not to give in to the pressure, they acted rashly and are now suffering the consequence. In peacetime, their action would have resulted in weakening the public sympathy for their defamed hero. This is, however, anything but peacetime.

Having waited till the square becomes deserted, Jauffre picks up the torn pieces of Cyrodiil's only newspaper and heads into a bar that is dark and quiet. Once seated in the corner table with a plate of food, he proceeds to put the pieces together and reads in dim candlelight the very article that infuriated the public.

_SPECIAL edition_

_Hero of Kvatch, a regular in the Imperial Prison?_

'_Is our great Empire so desperate to make a hero out of a criminal who is not only a murderess but also a former prostitute who tried to swindle money out of a decent man?' Thus asks Adamus Phillida, Commander of the Imperial Legion in none other than the Imperial City. According to Phillida, the hero of Kvatch had been imprisoned before her rise to a national celebrity. And on no less than a grave charge of fraud._

_When questioned further on the subject, the charismatic Legion Commander who is renowned for his tough stance against the Dark Brotherhood revealed that she not only sold her body but also tried to exploit her customer by pretending to be a virgin. She asked ten times the going rate, which our poor man agreed to pay on the understanding that it was the virtue of her innocence that he would be purchasing. Her scheme, which could have put many honest, hardworking citizens out of pocket, was short-lived. Her customer was not only the discerning type but also a man of noble birth, who understandably did not take lightly to having been deceived. _

_Phillida is adamant that it is time for her to pay for her crimes. "She had already been given a second chance, which she carelessly wasted away," the Commander insists. His view of the fallen hero is no doubt just as unbending as his life-long battle against the Dark Brotherhood, the remorseless guild of ritualistic murderers. "While prostitution itself is not illegal, it is by no means practiced by virtuous women. It is simply blasphemous to think the Nine chose this former prostitute who also happens to be a shameless liar and murderess as a vehicle of their Divine will. True, the Divine shows mercy to those who repent their sins. But in the view of her latest killing spree, can we truly believe that she ever repented her first crime?"_

Jauffre puts away the pieces, making himself a mental note that he will obtain a decent copy later. Though the hero of Kvatch will never meet Martin face-to-face again – he will make sure of that - there is nothing wrong in being prepared for the unthinkable.

* * *

Unlike the first day, Lucien did not need to make a conscious effort to pull Diane out of her favoured pastime, sleeping. She woke up voluntarily around noon, which was not overindulgent, as she was only allowed to go to bed just before dawn. Though he suspects that it must be something to do with Sithis placing a time restraint on her reunion with Alexi, he is reasonably pleased with the change and his findings on her use of magic.

Keeping his watchful eyes on the road and trusting Shadowmere to alert him over any danger, Lucien mulls over Diane's skills in the art of magic. The depth of her magicka and her abilities in Illusion and Alteration are satisfying enough, but it is her mastery of Restoration that caught his eye. He wonders whether he has found the secret of her success. Whatever skills or attributes her opponents have, Diane simply seems to be able to absorb them. Lucien quickly realised that he could no longer beat her with ease even in bladecraft. In fact, it was the other way round, till he called on the ever-useful Dispel Other. Without it, Diane would have had no trouble beating Lucien at his own game by simply absorbing his strength and blade techniques. It is rather reassuring to know that he can lock away her impressive abilities whenever he wishes.

Lucien looks up to the sky and frowns at its colourful display of blues and reds disappearing into the coming night. According to Ungolim's letter, a courier should be passing the road anytime soon. He finds it rather puzzling that he should be intercepting an unscheduled delivery from the Black Horse Courier again, only a day after they have published an article. Still, one cannot question the wisdom of the Night Mother and he is sure whatever he is supposed to read will be a matter of interest that concerns his project.

Soon enough, he spots the same girl on a black horse from whom he got a copy of the newspaper the day before. Unlike the previous day, she seems on edge and does not stop to chat about the contents of the paper despite Lucien's charming smile. She mumbles something about not liking the writing and wishing to burn the whole pile before hurrying away with the look of a martyr on her face. The strange behaviour is shortly explained as he scans the contents of the copy the girl was nervous about parting with.

_It must have been the curse of the stars._ Lucien shakes his head in disbelief and bewilderment. _And I thought the Nine had no sense of humour. They certainly know how to choose their child_.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

They face each other, away from the large circular table and far away from the door. Though there are plenty of comfortably cushioned high-back chairs around the table, Ocato does not invite Jauffre to sit down. Despite the pleasant smile that adorns his lips, it is obvious that the High Chancellor is not overjoyed to see his old friend. Otherwise Jauffre would not have been kept waiting over an hour.

"You could have written to me," Ocato begins once the palace guards leave the room, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back lightly against a stone pillar. "It would have saved you the trouble of having to come all the way to the Imperial City when you are clearly needed elsewhere."

Jauffre frowns at the choice of Ocato's words of greetings. Not that he expected to be welcomed with open arms.

"I would not have asked for your time were there not compelling need. Not at a time like this. It is the future Emperor's wish that we meet personally."

"You of course realise that the Elder Council will need indisputable proof that Martin is indeed the heir to the throne? At this stage, his words do not have the authority of the Septim bloodline."

Jauffre looks up in amazement at the Altmer dressed in his red silk garment, and looking as elegant and poised as ever. Has power gone to his head? Does he doubt the legitimacy of the heir who was accepted as such by the Blades?

"Believe it or not, dear old man, I do wish to have an Emperor above me," says Ocato with a sigh, briefly placing his hand on the Grandmaster's arm. He can read the Breton like an open book.

"I know you well enough to trust you, but my views on the subject are not shared by the majority of the Elder Council. Most of them blame the Blades for the murder of our late Emperor. That is bad enough. And it gets worse. We must assume that there was a collaborator in your midst, someone who helped Dagon's followers carry out the assassination From the way the assassins confidently anticipated every move of the Emperor and his bodyguards, there can be only a limited number of suspects."

Despite Ocato's apologetic look, the unspoken words painfully sting. Apart from Baurus, Jauffre is the only one still living who knew about the escape route through the prison. Their enemy made sure that their little informant would not live to tell the tale. But it is impossible to identify the traitor amongst the dead, since the search of their belongings and connections proved futile. It does not bode well that Jauffre lost the Amulet of Kings while it was in his care, a mistake that could cause the collapse of the Empire.

"We will have the Amulet of Kings back," says Jauffre, trying to sound as convincing as possible. "In fact, the hero of Kvatch was sent to get the first item necessary to achieve that end. Since her aid is no longer available to us, we will need the Legion and the Battlemages to help us in this task."

"As much as I would like to help, you know our hands are full at the moment. We are not in a position to assist with what should be the responsibility of the Blades," Ocato responds coolly, his mind busy calculating possible responses from Jauffre and how to counter them. He does not like disappointing the Grandmaster, especially when he represents the heir to the throne. Nevertheless, it is too risky to expend the Empire's precious resources on an undertaking that has no guarantee of success. And exactly where would the Imperial Legion soldiers and Battlemages end up, were he to agree to aid such a doubtful scheme? Under the command of the incompetent Blades, who could not even successfully perform their sworn duties!

Years of prayer and meditation may not have helped Jauffre to keep safe the single item that the Empire and its heir need most, but they are not completely useless. He maintains his composure and controls his bitter anger at the blame laid at his feet. His voice is slightly rigid, and his expression is not exactly friendly. But they do not convey open hostility by any means.

"The Oblivion crisis will not end without retrieving the Amulet from the hands of our enemy. They took it because of its significance in warding off the invasion they are plotting. Only the one who can wear the Amulet can light the Dragonfires and permanently end the daedric invasion. It is our only hope. Yet, our numbers have dwindled to the extent that we cannot spare any of the remaining Blades from guarding our future Emperor's safety. If you cannot give us the aid we are asking for, we will still require the services of the hero of Kvatch."

For the first time since their reunion, visible frown lines appear in Ocato's forehead. The topic is most uncomfortable. He feels trapped in between the Imperial Legion - in particular the uncompromising Adamus Phillida - and a protesting public.

"Believe me when I say I would like nothing better than to get the charges against her dropped. I wish to hear nothing more from either her supporters or opponents. But the Legion will not back down on this, and they cannot be seen to bow down to the whims of the public. My position is close to impossible."

It is Jauffre's good fortune that the Legion's attempt to defame the hero of Kvatch backfired on them. Thanks to their antics, the Elder Council found themselves out of favour with those whose very interests they are supposed to serve. He begins to see the light; he starts to believe that Martin's proposal may just appeal to the High Chancellor.

"What if such a demand were to come from _within_ the Legion? What if the Legion soldiers themselves initiate a petition to that end and present it as, say, a gesture of selfless prudence in the service of the Empire and its citizens?"

Ocato considers the proposal. No one likes to be the object of public scorn. The common soldiers will take the sudden decrease in their popularity hard. It will of course be difficult for them to express sympathy towards the hero of Kvatch while their superiors take a firm stance against her. But then, Phillida and his staunch followers can always be sent away to fulfil other duties. Perhaps closing a couple of Oblivion gates may just appease the public? In any case, he has nothing to lose in hearing out Jauffre's suggestions.

"Why don't we sit down, old friend?"

* * *

The trap door opens and closes as silently as the air Diane breathes. She is sitting at the dining table, eyes closed and leaning back in the chair. A few crumbled parchments lie next to an abandoned quill on the ink-stained table. She does not stir for a while, though she can feel the small influx of the fresh night breeze blending into the stale air of Fort Farragut; the only sign of Lucien's return to his home. When she finally opens her eyes and smiles, looking upwards and sideways, an amused expression greets her.

"You have a talent for making the headlines," Lucien says coolly, handing her his copy of the newspaper in question. "Enlighten me."

"Enlighten you about what?" is Diane's response after looking through the article. The gnawing sense of being trapped returns to her, trapped in a world that alienates her. A world that she cannot sympathise with. A world where only Alexi and her father made any sense to her. There is a sense of disappointment, too. Whatever views Lucien held of her, she had thought he would not be judgemental of her actions, not like the ordinary citizens of Cyrodiil. The disillusion brings with it fury. She doesn't have to justify herself to anyone, let alone to a murderer. For the first time since Alexi's death, Diane finds herself thinking like her old self. She is defiant and proud.

"Most of what it says here is true, event-wise. Does it even matter to you which bit is untrue?"

Lucien only shrugs gracefully at her insolent tone and challenging stare.

"I prefer to know the people I work with. That article came as a surprise to me, and I do not like surprises. You seemed to be too proud to lie beneath a man for profit. Perhaps, my perception was wrong? So, yes, it matters to me which bit of the story is untrue."

"And you are not too proud to kill people for profit?"

"Murder invokes fear in men and mer, prostitution only contempt."

Diane tries to stand up, but her attempt to get away from Lucien is quickly thwarted by his hand firmly pressing her shoulder. The hand stays there while he speaks with composed authority.

"You presume wrongly. I do not think like those you have known. I do not judge you like others must have done. I only want to learn about you, and that you owe me."

The anger swelling inside her melts away. She shakes her head, but now there is a friendly smile in her eyes. He has spoken the very words that she always needed to hear: _I do not judge you._ They warm her to the very core of her being. For one mad moment, she feels overwhelmed by the desire to trace, with her fingers, the full lips that spoke those heartening words.

"You will find my side of the story hard to believe."

"Humour me," Lucien replies smoothly, taking a seat opposite her and locking his gaze onto hers.

"I needed money – a lot of it, and quickly," Diane begins, omitting the reason why she so desperately wanted the finance. "I made most of it in the Arena. But by the time I shed the blood of ten other combatants, I was sick to my stomach at the crowd's cheers and screams for more blood. I just couldn't bring myself to go through the three more matches I needed. Thinking back, that's what I should have done."

_Arena. The legalised institution for satiating the human craving for violence._ Lucien muses idly. In some ways, the participants are worse off than the prostitutes. A prostitute who enters a room with a client can still call it off. A combatant who enters the Arena has already sealed his or her fate. How strange it is that the Nine are never known to object to such blatant, glorified carnage.

"That's why I paid a little visit to a brothel in the Waterfront District. I was introduced to a rich Imperial, and things all went downhill from there."

Diane hesitates for a moment but continues her story, encouraged by Lucien's inquisitive expression that betrays no sign of condemnation.

"I always found myself empathizing more easily with people whom society held in contempt. Not the poor, for they are not ostracized by the majority. But the prostitutes are altogether different. They are deemed by society as moral degenerates to such an extent that they do not go out of their way to force their views onto others. The thought of living their life for one single day didn't abhor me. I didn't find my virginity anything to be proud of – you see, I was a virgin merely because I was scared out of my wits about the possibility of being with child. And the proprietor of the brothel was happy to share with me her secret of avoiding pregnancy. So, I went ahead to – as you so elegantly put – lie beneath a stranger for profit."

"And the stranger accused you of cheating because he didn't want to pay the agreed price?"

"He genuinely believed that he was done for. With good reason, too. The night started off badly. He expected to see this shy little girl whom he would make a woman out of. But I'd never seen a completely naked male body before. I had to look. And I had a hard time not laughing at the prized male organ. It looked so … unappetising, aesthetically speaking. He was greatly annoyed by my reaction, but the worst part was yet to come… When he moved inside me, I felt nothing, no initial pain and no subsequent pleasure. He was trying so hard to get a reaction out of me that the whole thing felt just ridiculously funny. Needless to say, there was no tangible proof of my virginity on the sheet when he finally finished… We argued like petty children afterwards. In the end, I cast a Burden spell on him, took my payment and left."

Diane does not find scepticism in Lucien's eyes. Instead, they sparkle with laughter. There is no reason for him to doubt her story. He has not detected any sign of a lie, and surely she must have some virtues approved by the Nine. Honesty may just fit the bill, though it isn't exactly a desirable trait when it comes to spying for the Brotherhood. Hmm. He will have to find a way around that little problem. Later.

"I have but one more question. Why did you not resist the arrest when the guards came for you? You could simply have absorbed their strength and run."

Diane drops her gaze and inhales shakily. Tears once again threaten to spill. Lucien realises at once that it was something to do with Alexi. He calls her to him gently, and pulls her onto his lap when she comes. He no longer feels the need to observe her face. She, on the other hand, needs the wordless comfort that Alexi used to provide. Lucien reflects somewhat bitterly that Ungolim was right about one thing – he was probably the best choice out of the Black Hand as far as his current mission is concerned. No one else would have been able to gain her trust.

"I needed the fund to buy a farm for myself and Alexi. The severest punishment I would have got for the fraud charge was three months in jail. The alternative was to go on the run. I didn't want to jeopardise her safety… I had no idea that her life was already in great danger," Diane offers after a while, her head still buried in the crook of his neck. "There were so many things that I would have done differently, had I known what she was to go through."

Lucien lets her drink in his bodily warmth for a few moments longer, pressing his lips to her honey-brown hair. Only when she is relaxed enough to run her hand over his chest, he speaks to bring an end to their rather satisfying discourse.

"Do you realise you broke your client's heart? That poor bastard had a dream of turning a virgin into a whore. And you turned his dream into a nightmare," he states somewhat humorously. Then, with mock earnestness, "You do know what you must do next time you choose to lie with a man? That is, if you seek sensual pleasure rather than amusement..."

"What must I do?"

"Simple. Ask him to blindfold you."

Diane smiles a smile untainted by sorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Diane can understand why Lucien chose the gloomy fort as what she suspects to be his main residence. The sun never graces its interior, creating an impression of ever- stretching night. It is an ideal place to rest for an assassin who prefers to walk in the dark; they have no love for the blue sky and the inviting warmth of the sun.

Shunning the sun is, however, a surprisingly comforting experience. It makes her less sensitive to the fact that the world continues to exist without Alexi. It seems wrong to take pleasure in the fresh air and feel the soothing heat of the sunlight on her skin, without Alexi at her side. Her horse may not have been her entire life; her independence and self-improvement were equally important. But now that their main competition is gone, Diane can hardly care about them.

The only skill that matters to her now is one that she never possessed before. It makes sense that she needs a reminder of the happy moments that she shared with Alexi, since her sense of guilt is distorting their past, making it almost impossible to celebrate Alexi's existence. If she could draw just one realistic picture capturing the comfort and delight in each other's company, she might do justice to Alexi's significance in her life. Unfortunately, Diane never learned how to sketch. Given the many failed attempts, she cannot convince herself that she at least has unexplored talent in illustration.

"You are no good at this," Lucien remarks, straightening one of the crumpled parchments and frowning at yet-another sorry effort. Had he not known her troubles well, he would have never guessed she was drawing herself and Alexi. He is certain a three-year-old would have done a better job.

"You're right. I should take lessons first," she replies with a dejected sigh, putting down the quill next to the inkbottle. "Or maybe I should just pay someone to do this for me."

Not liking her solutions to the challenge, Lucien considers kidnapping an artist. That way, he will have his amusement and she will get exactly what she wants. But the time factor is against such an entertaining scheme. Besides, he has his pride to think of. Abducting a mere citizen in no way requires an expertise like his; it is beneath him.

"I have a better idea," he says, handing her back the crude work. "Can you smooth the surface?"

Diane looks up for a moment, baffled. As it becomes apparent that he has no intention of explaining himself further, she starts to rub the creased surface using her palm. Lucien's hand captures her wrist. The simple motion has more effect than stopping her futile efforts. Her eyes close involuntarily and her heart skips a beat. When he withdraws his hand, she isn't sure whether her sigh is of relief or disappointment. It worries her that she is becoming addicted to his touch, that she is beginning to find more than comfort from it. It is unsettling because his impassive eyes have not shown any sign of lust while regarding her.

"Not like that. Try Alteration."

It takes a little while before she fully understands his instruction. When she does, her first thought is to voice her doubts. She has never tried Alteration beyond its common usages. But then, there's a first time for everything. And she has always loved challenges involving magic.

Since there is no known incantation for her task, she merely stares at the parchment before placing her hand a few inches above it. Eyes closed in concentration, she wills the required change and lets her magicka steadily flow onto the object.

Nothing happens for a long while. The disheartening lack of change makes Lucien ponder whether his idea was unworkable. He says nothing of his scepticism, however. Looking at the stubbornly unmoving form in front, he finds it almost fascinating to see her so determined - considering how quickly she got frustrated over each of her sketches, it is like observing a different person. Even though she appears exhausted and paler than usual, there is distinctive aura of self-assurance about her.

When her eyes snap open and meet his with a proud smile, Lucien does not have to look at the parchment to realise her triumph. The little success comes, of course, from a terrible waste of her magicka, which cannot be allowed to repeat once they leave Fort Farragut. For now, however, it serves a purpose.

"Now what?" Diane asks, regarding her work with disdain. After the initial feeling of accomplishment, she knows well that she is still a long way from creating a decent portrait. She is, however, more positive than before, and she sees this optimism reflected in his eyes.

Lucien is about to enquire how long it will take for her to regenerate the spent magicka when he hears a knock on the iron gate. He is quick to see the disappointment in her eyes. Not until after he has answered her does it occur to him that he has been enjoying her company. Men and mer mean only one of two things to him: a family member or potential prey. She is neither, forcing him to adopt a new perspective. Developing a relationship with her is a challenge, and one that he is sure to win…or perhaps he has already won?

"You should be able to figure out the rest yourself. It seems I have a visitor."

* * *

Diane had no innate affinity with horses. Alexi's mother was a spirited horse, and though that endeared the mare to her father, Diane regarded her as simply mean. She would not allow Diane to stroke her, much less to ride her. Diane was, however, envious of the mare simply because she seemed to spend more time with her father than she did herself, accompanying him on his long trips.

Then Alexi arrived. The foal, with its shining chestnut coat and dark brown eyes, was nothing like her mother. She was gentle, if rather easily frightened by anything unusual or loud. But most of all, she accepted Diane as though it was the most natural thing in the world. She would whicker softly when groomed by Diane, and her eyes would light up every time Diane came into her view. Not long after being weaned, she showed a preference for following her young mistress rather than her own mother. The gesture touched Diane more than anything. And after her father and Alexi's mother left them behind for another adventure, Diane understood she was fast becoming Alexi's whole world. It was both unnerving and intoxicating realisation.

While waiting for her magicka to rejuvenate, Diane's mind holds on to one particular moment that she wants to capture. If this is going to work, she needs the image pure and precise in her mind. She will not let her guilt ruin the one tribute she can pay to Alexi.

She was fourteen at the time, Alexi still a filly. The joy of seeing her father was short-lived, as the atmosphere in her home soon turned icy. Her mother was determined to have her husband back at her side. Her father grew defensive and irritable as their argument progressed, and Diane simply had to get away. Even though it was late evening and she rarely took Alexi out for a ride when dark, she made an exception to the rule.

The summer's night was warm, and the clear sky seemed to melt into the calm sea, darkening and illuminating its surface. Far away from home and standing next to her trusted friend, Diane stared out at untroubled, unfeeling Nature. The moment seemed so peaceful, so welcoming that she coaxed a slightly apprehensive Alexi into lying down. She wanted to listen to Alexi's heartbeat and feel the warm coat under her palm in that perfect setting. Comforted and content, it was not long before she succumbed to the pleasant call of sleep, forgetting the fact that there is a reason for men and beasts to seek enclosed shelter.

It was a mistake that nearly cost both their lives. Abruptly awakened by Alexi's hysterical cries, Diane was aghast at the sight of an angry troll, far too close for comfort. It took a few seconds before her mind cleared, enabling her to pull her sword from its sheath. When she saw Alexi taking the first blow, Diane nearly lost her mind. She had to shut out all her feelings and focus on pushing her sword deep into the troll's back, before fear could paralyse her.

She did not spare their defeated attacker a second glance. Alexi's soft grunts of pain prompted her to administer Restore Other to the wound without delay. All the time, she tried not to think, not to feel, not even to look at Alexi's face. Only when the gash closed and the bleeding finally stopped, she berated herself for her carelessness and let the whirlwind of emotions affect her. Then cautiously, she looked into her friend's eyes, fearing loss of trust.

There was no accusation or doubt in the big brown eyes, only relief and unwavering affection. As Alexi's rough tongue licked the length of Diane's face, she threw her arms around the devoted filly's withers.

* * *

"Ah, Lucien!" J'Ghasta greets him, having swallowed the last mouthful of his first glass. The view through the iron gate is still not to his taste. Unlike during his last visit, however, the Khajiit found a comfortable couch and a sturdy wooden table on the dusty stone floor. To his delight, two bottles of fine red wine and a couple of goblets were already set out on the table. Naturally, he made himself at home.

"Hand business?" Lucien asks, having spotted a large sealed envelope, lying forgotten on the floor.

J'Ghasta does not particularly like the idea of playing Ungolim's private messenger. Then again, after declaring Lucien dead to most of the Brotherhood, he can see why Ungolim cannot just send a courier to Fort Farragut. He has a bad feeling that he will have to fill this undignified role for a long time to come.

"Ungolim said you must have a report on the secret mission. So, I suppose we could call it that," the Khajiit replies, filling two glasses before announcing his kind intention. "But seeing that you have developed a knack of making your visitors feel welcome, this one could stay longer than necessary."

"You are implying you should be elsewhere?" Lucien asks, taking a sip of wine. He knows J'Ghasta is usually neglecting his duty when he makes out he is doing someone a favour. He wonders what the Khajiit hopes to gain by prolonging his stay. The wishes of Sithis and the Night Mother are not sufficient reasons for J'Ghasta's actions; he is primarily moved by his own self-interest.

"In theory, I should return soon to watch Vicente," J'Ghasta admits. "No former assassin of yours is supposed to be left alone, for obvious reasons. But Vicente being the only subordinate, it is somewhat impossible to make sure someone keeps a close eye on him at all times."

It is not likely that the Khajiit trusts Vicente any more than the vampire's former family. Seeing that it is in Vicente's interest to be watched often and closely, the Imperial decides that J'Ghasta will not stay after finishing his share of the wine. It will give Lucien sufficient time to catch up with new developments in the Brotherhood, if there are any.

"The thing is, there is no need to watch Vicente if other Speakers are doing what they agreed to," J'Ghasta explains with a sly grin. He is certain that all the other Speakers are religiously following the Hand's decision to implement cautionary measures. "Besides, if Vicente were the traitor, whom would he strike dead? Our little Bosmer has one more murder to commit before she sets foot inside the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. If this one were to meet a premature death, wouldn't it be all too obvious who would be responsible?"

Lucien's impassive expression relaxes into an amused smile, as J'Ghasta talks about the latest Hand meeting and Banus' qualms about having to take on three assassins from Cheydinhal. With Belisarius being new to the duties of a Speaker and J'Ghasta having to build the Cheydinhal Sanctuary almost from scratch, the Dunmer's protest did not fall on sympathetic ears. Apparently, Arquen had hissed at him just to get on with it.

Having entertained Lucien and seeing the Imperial drinking from his second glass, J'Ghasta decides to try his luck. If he is going to play the unsavoury role of a messenger, shouldn't he be at least entitled to some juicy secrets?

"You know it is important that the Hand should be able to contact you if anything happened to Ungolim. You must see the advantage and necessity of at least one Speaker being privy to the details of your mission."

"If such an occasion ever arose, dear Brother," Lucien gives his answer, trying not to show his condescending smile at the vain attempt, "ask the Night Mother. I shall be found when she wishes me to be."

The wine suddenly tastes bitter, but J'Ghasta is not beaten yet. If no one is going to tell him what he wants to know, he will just have to find it out by himself.


End file.
